The Littlest Holmes
by JesusFreakForever1
Summary: Right after the Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock's little sister moves back to London from South Africa to have closure concerning her older brother's death and to comfort those involved. At least, that is what Mycroft and Patricia want everyone else to think.


**A/N: Hey guys! This is my take on what Sherlock's sister would be like. She would be the sweet and kind sibling, loved by everyone and brilliant in her own right. She won't be a carbon copy of Sherlock, but you will be able to tell that she is his sibling. Enjoy!**

"Please fasten your seatbelts, we are beginning to land," a cheerful, robotic voice chimed out. The passengers began fastening themselves, one passenger in particular hesitating slightly before violently grabbing the seatbelt to fasten it, before popping chewing gum in her mouth and going back to her Samsung Galaxy tablet.

Slim fingers danced on the screen, finding the article she was looking for, her long, shiny, well-filed, clear fingernails not hindering her in the slightest. Silently she compared her skin tone to the woman sitting next to her, smiling at the wonderful tan she had acquired after her five-year long stay in South Africa. She was still pale, especially compared to those Afrikaners, or Afrikaans-speaking South Africans, but she was decidedly a lot more tan than the average Londoner.

At last, she found it, the article that uprooted her from her pleasant existence in Four Ways, Johannesburg on an investigative and hurried expedition to London. _Suicide of Fake Genius, Sherlock Holmes Takes Own Life._ In actuality, it wasn't the article that made her hurriedly pack her bags. It was Mycroft skyping her at an ungodly hour and recommending that she read the blasted thing. He stressed that she refrain from taking the article literally, and that he would meet her at the airport to explain things.

A slight jolt indicated that they had landed, the woman next to her groaning slightly at the sudden movement. The passenger rolled her eyes slightly as her finger involuntarily closed the article at the same instant. Locking the screen, she utilised the opportunity to study her neighbour as she moved to put away her tablet in her handbag.

A ring on the left hand. Engaged, or married. The former likelier than the latter due to the absence of the partner. Well-manicured nails, well off, but not rich enough to be sitting in first class. Slight callouses on right hand, musician. Classic guitarist or violinist, judging by the artsy, yet formal clothing. English. Because she heard her accent earlier. No. That was not cheating, that was listening.

She sat up and looked at her neighbour openly, then smiled, extending her hand in greeting. "I am sorry, I have been sitting next to you the whole bloody flight and didn't introduce myself. My name is Patricia, Patricia Holmes."

The woman next to her smiled, "Anne Smith, pleased to meet you."

Patricia smiled warmly in return, "You from London?"

Anne looked slightly taken aback, "Er, yes. How did you know?"

Patricia shrugged, "Just a wild guess. Your accent, the fact that you are flying to London, I was just curious."

Anne smiled, " And where are you from?"

Patricia laughed, "Originally, London. Now, South Africa."

"Oh, alright, you are a South African citizen?" Anne inquired.

Patricia shook her head, "Nope, I am between South Africa and England."

"What brings you to London?"

"I'm here for a well-deserved holiday and to see my brother, you?"

Anne smiled broadly, "I am getting married." _Bingo._

Patricia gaped in well-faked surprise, "Really? Oh, can I see the ring?"

Anne proudly showed the ring, and Patricia scrutinised it eagerly. It was a simple, yet pretty ring. The band was silver with a small pear-shaped blue stone and some swirls of silver coming off it. Husband to be obviously artistic and well off. Most probably a director or small time actor. A painter would not be able to afford the ring and a musician would have gone for something more abstract.

"Oh, it's gorgeous!" Patricia cried, genuinely impressed. Honestly, if Andre and her were ever to get married, she wouldn't mind a ring just like this one.

"Thank you," Anna shyly remarked.

"Attention all passengers. We have landed. We hope you enjoy your stay in London or wherever your travels take you. Thank you for flying with British Airways."

"Well, I think that is our cue," Patricia chimed brightly, picking up her handbag and checking her phone as she stood up. Rolling her eyes at the message that just came through.

_I will be meeting you personally at our usual place. Please don't bring any newfound friends, this is important._

_MH_

Sighing dramatically she typed out and sent a sharp witted reply.

"You coming?" Patricia asked, turning towards Anne. Mycroft knew her so well, obviously she would have made a friend on the plane and obviously she would have wanted Anne to tag along if possible in an effort to get to know her better.

Anne nodded and stood. Taking her own handbag, she followed Patricia in the search for their luggage.

"So, what's he like?" Patricia asked Anne as she patiently waited for her suitcase to pass through customs.

"Well, let me see," Anne smiled, "he is tall, handsome, funny, kind, loyal and just absolutely adorable." 

"What does he do?"

"Oh, he does whatever. Directs a movie here, does some acting there. Small roles, nothing big. But his work as a Police Officer is what pays the bills most of the time."

_Right again! But what of the Police Officer part? How could I miss it? I must have had insufficient data. _"That's great, what do you do?" Patricia inquired.

"I am a violinist. I play for anyone who would pay me. I also do some accounting on the side. Some people say that I should have accounting as my main job but, I love the violin so much accounting sort of became a hobby for me."

"That is interesting, wow." _Accounting? How could I have missed that? Ah well, I am not Sherlock, am I?_

"What do you do Patricia?" Anne asked as they walked out of the airport in search of a taxi.

Patricia tensed slightly, ah well. She could tell Anne the truth, she had two jobs. She could just leave the one unmentioned.

"I am a nail technician, but sometimes I fill in the role of a hairdresser," Patricia stated simply. And she was a 'consulting detective' like Sherlock, except not as annoyingly excellent. But she was not going to mention that. And what did it matter that Sherlock saw the detail in everything, it was not his fault that he is a highly-functioning Asperger's sufferer who could not ignore anything. Was it?

"Oh well, that is interesting. Listen, I have to go, my cab is here. Can I have your number? I would love to meet up for coffee sometime." Anna suggested as a black taxi cab pulled up.

"Oh, sure, I'd love to," Patricia replied warmly, whipping out her phone, ecstatic at another chance of observation. The two newfound friends exchanged numbers in an instant, but that instant was just enough for Patricia to observe and analyse everything Anne's phone had to tell.

It was an expensive phone, a gift. Well looked after and cherished, so it must be from someone of importance. An engraving, a heart with three kisses followed by initials G.L. The future husband, then. There was something else about the meticulous cleanness of the phone which was not purely because it was a cherished gift. It seemed cleaned regularly and out of habit, as well as her jewellery. The systemacy and accuracy of her cleanliness explained her accounting position.

The two women parted, and Patricia slid easily into the backseat of her cab. Just before she could ask the cabman to take her to her destination her phone buzzed. She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. Mycroft.

_Change of plans. Ask for Baker Street. Meet me at the cafe._

_MH. x_

Patricia sighed heavily, "The cafe on Baker Street please,"

It started a light rain on the way to Baker Street. Patricia looked out her window, surveying the city she had left five years prior. Nothing had changed much, but she had missed London, but now she was missing sunny Jozi as well. She began wondering if Mycroft would let her fly Andre over once he had concluded his 'urgent' business with her.

Her mind drifted back to the article. Had Sherlock, her Sherlock, really taken his life? He wouldn't. He was a happy man. He was happy with his skull and his work and his new friend, what was his name? John. Every single time they skyped or emailed each other he was _happy._ He would never take his own life unless he...was...forced...to...

Had someone forced him to jump? Had his crime-cracking lifestyle made so many enemies that he had no choice but to _jump_? The paper said he was a fraud, a fake. She scoffed at that. If he was a fake then she was too. She learned everything she knew from him, and his Asperger's was anything _but _fake.

The cabbie stopped just outside the cafe in question. Patricia paid her fee, grabbed her handbag and suitcase and ducked inside the cafe. Mycroft was sitting peacefully in one corner, deep in thought and twirling his umbrella around and round.

Patricia smirked as she walked up to him, dropping her suitcase hard at his feet to get his attention. To her disappointment, he didn't even jump in surprise. He just merely looked up at her and smiled.

"You are horribly boring, Mycie, you didn't even get a fright!" Patricia whined.

Mycroft laughed as he stood, giving his little sister a bear hug, "I did, I just didn't show it."

"Liar."

Mycroft gave a light hearted laugh again, pulling out of his little sister's embrace. His face then became serious. "Trish, we need to talk. Sit down."

Patricia complied, suddenly feeling the gravity of the situation.

Mycroft looked long and hard at his little sister. She had grown up so much in the past five years. She was only a little girl when she went to South Africa for a 'cultural experience', only 18. Now, at 23, she had obviously matured. She seemed taller, her physique was stronger, her cheekbones more pronounced. Her wavy, chestnut hair was now cropped short that it barely touched her shoulders, in the past it was halfway down her back. Her eyebrows were higher, and her makeup was less. Just base and mascara. Her brown eyes sparkled more than they did before, signifying the wonderful adventures she had in South Africa. There was something else in her eyes too, something he didn't understand, something so vivid and lively, but its meaning escaped him entirely.

"It is about Sherlock, isn't it?" Patricia voiced.

Mycroft sighed, "He is not dead..."

"Oh, thank the Lord!"

"But, everyone else has to think he is."

Patricia studied her brother, "Why?" she asked, even though she was sure she knew the answer.

"He faked his death to protect everyone. His arch-nemesis, James Moriarty, threatened to kill John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and a member of Scotland Yard, Greg Lestrade, if Sherlock did not jump." Mycroft explained.

Patricia sighed, "So, I am here to go to Sherlock's funeral, bawl out a few tears and sort his things to convince everyone once again that he is indeed, dead?"

"Pretty much."

"Alright, on one condition."

"What is that?" Mycroft asked, amused.

"That I get to punch Sherley in the face for scaring me, and then give him a hug because I miss him like you won't believe."

Mycroft chuckled, "I am sure that that can be arranged. Now, come, bring your things, we can discuss this in detail when we get home. Then, we are going to pay a visit to Scotland Yard, where you act the hopelessly depressed and shocked little sister that you would be if Sherley _had _killed himself. I have a few things to clear up and you have to convince the Yard, indirectly, of course."

Patricia stood up and slung her handbag over her shoulder, "Can't wait," she commented dryly, as she followed Mycroft, who was carrying her suitcase. Sliding easily into the backseat of the car, she suddenly groaned internally. Jessica was here. What did she call herself around guys again? Anthea.

"Hi Jess!" She greeted with false enthusiasm. That woman had an obsession with her phone like you won't believe. Jessica barely acknowledged Patricia's presence. Patricia sighed. This was going to be a long couple of weeks.

**A/N: There you are! If you have any ideas of your own for the story please PM me, feedback is very much appreciated! :)**


End file.
